Yearnings and thoughts

I think I can write, but what do I know?

These words make sense coming out of my own head

But do they understand me, enough to tell the tales

That I have so mistakenly trampled on in their own making.

Formed out of nowhere, the mystery that is a thought

Delicately hangs in the air until

Taking a solid shape that is only solid to my own eyes,

Do you see the same thing I do?

Or is the solid shape only a sound to you

A quick sound, in a hushed tone

As the fire dies down and gently

Stirs with the remnants of wild passion.

The flowers that bloom are the work of artists

They are formed by the words

That were determined long before you knew

What you were going to say.

And the mystery remains as such…

About aletalane

I am a learner.
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